


he would just fade away.

by evangelistofstars



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Attempted Abortion, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Child Loss, Drinking to Cope, Drowning Problems in Alcohol, Flower metaphors, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Letters, Overdosing, Post-Canon, Suicide, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, anatole dies, fedya's child dies, fedya's mom dies, helene dies, post-canon dolokhov au? i think yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 13:24:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14521500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evangelistofstars/pseuds/evangelistofstars
Summary: Katya was a fresh flower, of early spring. Right now, she was curled up in a little ball, unable to open up. But soon she was ready to blossom and ready to take on the world.Fedya, however, was a wilted flower, done with everything in his life.There was no hope for him left in this world, no hope that he could put into it.As long as he held on to life, his petals would continue to wilt, until there was nothing left of him.Like a flower, he would just fade away.





	he would just fade away.

She was gone. **  
**

He couldn’t believe it. She was gone.

Fedya let his fingers graze over the paper as he read the letter he couldn’t believe he was reading. He couldn’t believe she was gone.

She couldn’t be gone. Not if he had anything to say about it.

And yet, there it was, in black and white, the very letter that contained the words revealing her death to be reality. Fedya wanted it to go away.

> _On this day in 1812, Helene Bezukhova was found dead in her bedchamber, clutching a bottle of pills. It is believed that she was trying to cure herself of her lascivious past. She had been with child when she died. It is believed she was trying to abort the baby…_

He closed the letter. He couldn’t read any more. He couldn’t accept the fact that she was gone. She couldn’t be gone. He closed his eyes, expecting to cry, but the tears just wouldn’t come.

He knew he wasn’t responsible for her death. That there was nothing that he could’ve done to save her. And yet, he couldn’t help but feel like this whole mess was entirely his fault.

Had he been there, he might have been able to talk her out of it. She might have still been alive. She would’ve been right there, holding his hand, and staring into his eyes as she told him that she loved him and thanked him for saving her life.

But she was gone. And there was nothing he could do to bring her back. He couldn’t believe she was gone. He couldn’t! It was right then and there that Fedya started to collapse.

He didn’t go out much after that. But he heard the rumors. Things whispered in the streets, through cracks in the walls, at parties. He tried not to pay attention to these things, but rumors can be unavoidable. 

He closed his eyes, and tried not to think of these things. He closed his eyes, and tried to pretend she was there. But she wasn’t there. He’d never get to hold her or tell her he loved her again. She was gone, and he’d have to live without her. Forever.

 

_______________________________________________________

 

It was September of that same year when Anatole as well would die.

This time, Fedya was there to watch it.

By this time, Fedya had returned to war, hoping to drown his sorrows in cries of battle and inflicting pain on others. That had always seemed to work for him. Little did he know that it was then that his best friend would die, and he would be unable to save him.

Two cannon fires. Getting nearer. Anatole had looked out for himself. He hadn’t seen this one coming. It was then that the cannon ball hit him in his leg.

He passed out on the battle field, getting dragged away by medics on a plank. Fedya remembered calling him. Calling his name, over and over.

“Anatole.” he said. _“Anatole!”_ But there was no response.

Next thing he knew, Anatole woke up in the hospital. His leg had been cut off, due to the infection caused by his shot wound. Fedya had been by his side when it happened. He’d never seen Anatole look so weak, so pale, so miserable.It was hard to believe he was even the same Anatole at all.

He had held Anatole’s hand, had told him it would be okay. But Anatole didn’t survive. His last words to Fedya had been:

_“Take care of  yourself, Fedya. It’s what my sister would want you to do.”_

Next thing he knew, he was dead. Gone. No more. Not only had Helene been gone, but he would never see Anatole again.

* * *

 

The loss of the Kuragins impacted him more than he expected.

He found himself depressed and lacking in motivation for his everyday life, a shell of his former self. He tried everything in his power to change that. He drank, he dueled, did all of the things that he usually enjoyed. But it just wasn’t the same without Helene and Anatole by his side. He knew nothing in the world could change that. 

He found himself writing letters to Helene, even though he knew she was dead. The letters filled his desk, filled his mind, filled his soul. He poured out everything he had wanted to say to her if she were still alive. And he sealed up the letters, locked them away, in a little drawer in his desk. They would be safe there. No one would ever find them.

Other than that, Fedya had tried to stay out of things. He tried to stay out of the rumors that he knew were continuing to be spread.He tried to stay out of events, and was rarely ever seen in society, except when it was absolutely neccessary that he show up. What use was being in society if your entire social circle was dead?

It was then that a shocking, yet predictable realization hit him like a fallen comet. _Fedya had fathered Helene’s unborn child._  He remembered back to the distant memory, it seemed so distant, it seemed so long ago, when Helene had been sleeping with Fedya, and everything had been okay. He remembered the flirting and the yelling, the fights and the make-up sex. He remembered what seemed so long ago.

It was _he_  who had cost Helene her life. He was the missing piece. He was the reason she had done this to herself. He was the reason she was gone.

Fedya felt like breaking something, or rather having something break him. Or rather, something already was. He felt like his world was imploding, like he was being destroyed. Everything was coming together.

Everything was coming together terribly. Not only had Fedya lost Helene and Anatole, but his unborn child as well. “ _At least,”_ he thought,  _“What do I have to lose after this? Everything I know and love is gone.”_ But he would stand corrected yet again.

 

____________________________________________________________

 

It was early in 1813 when Fedya watched his mother die.

He had still not gotten over the deaths of the Kuragins or his child, but as his mother lay sick on her deathbead, he had convinced himself that she would make it. She had to make it. He had lost so much lately, he couldn’t lose her too. His mother and his sister were the only ones he really had left.

He sat there at his mother’s deathbed, though he didn’t know it was her deathbed at all. Like with Anatole, he had held her hand, assured her everything would be okay. She told him she was going to see his father in heaven, his father who had died in a duel so long ago.  

He told her that she need not go to heaven, that she would survive this and make it through the night, and just like that, she was gone. Just like Helene. Just like Anatole. Gone forever. He would never see his mother again.

His mother had a small funeral, but at least she got to have one one, unlike Helene and Anatole, who did not have any funeral at all. Helene would have, a woman of her standing should have. But considering the promiscuous way in which she died, no prestige of a funeral was offered to her. And Anatole had died a battlefield death, no funerals ever come of those.

He didn’t remember much about his mother’s funeral, just crying and praying and refusing to see her body. Fedya was a mess after that.

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

He’d visit their graves often, bringing flowers and respects to all three of them. His mother and Helene were buried in a Moscow church cemetary, his mother in an ordinary grave, and Helene in a tiny corner, because of the way she died. Anatole was buried in an unmarked grave at Borodino, but Fedya was able to estimate approximately where he should be.

Every week or so, he’d lay flowers on the graves and pray for them.For his mother. For Helene. For Anatole. Sometimes even for himself, though he was not dead. Not physically anyway---- though these days it felt like his soul was dead.

The letters to Helene increased, letters that he kept in his desk, and he hoped one day that she would come back to life and read them, though he knew that that never could be. He closed his eyes, and tried not to think of these things. He closed his eyes, and tried to pretend she was there.

Fedya was off the radar after that. By that time, people had basically forgotten he existed, the rumors and talk of Fedya Dolokhov had faded into nothing except few murmurs whispered between cracks.

He wrote to his sister often. She was much younger than him, but they were close, and she was the only living person he had left. He and his sister agreed to stick together, being the only living members of the Dolokhov family and what not. He was proud to see that his little sister had grown into a fine young woman. That Katya Dolokhova had grown into a respectable young lady with a place in society. She looked up to him, and she made it a point to tell him that.

Katya gave him hope, what shards of hope he could hold on to were priceless to him, and he locked it all away, hoping that if he could keep hoping, he could get out of this mess. Katya was like a flower to him, his little sister, always in bloom, yet never quite opening up. With her, he felt safe. With her, he felt like he had a family. With her, he felt like he could belong.

But even with the help from his sister, Fedya could feel himself cracking.He could feel himself falling into an abyss of despair so deep he could not dig himself out of it. He could feel himself fading, knew he would fade, that he would just fade away. His mind kept going back to the flower analogy.

Katya was a fresh flower, of early spring. Right now, she was curled up in a little ball, unable to open up. But soon she was ready to blossom and ready to take on the world. Fedya, however, was a wilted flower, done with everything in his life. There was no hope for him left in this world, no hope that he could put into it. As long as he held on to life, his petals would continue to wilt, until there was nothing left of him.  _Like a flower, he would just fade away._

His mind kept going back to this analogy. His mind kept repeating it over, and over, and over again, until there was no hope left for him. It was then that Fedya Dolokhov had truly wilted, it was then that he faded away.

It was then that Fedya Dolokhov had decided to end his life.


End file.
